


The Bones They Couldn't Break

by xissiar



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Hamilton Being Hamilton, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Washington Knows Everything, historical fiction - Freeform, lots of bickering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xissiar/pseuds/xissiar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revolution is complicated, fighting is not. </p><p>(Unless you're fighting Alexander Hamilton, in which case all bets are off.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The story of Icarus is well known.

Freedom, in the form of wax and feather wings are granted to the young man. His mission was simple: get help for his father trapped in the labyrinth. As he took flight, he saw the sun. It was too tempting, too beautiful, it burned too bright. He flies to it, his wings burn, he falls, he dies.

John Laurens could relate to this. Diving headfirst into unknown intrigue was nothing new to him. Every battle he’d ever fought, every fight he’d ever won he took with him the attitude of Icarus. Act now, make reparations later.

He related to Icarus, but not in every respect. His own father, Henry Laurens, would never stoop so low as to ask his son for help. This was made clear every time he raised his hand to him in rage, and the scars on his body didn’t let him forget a moment of it.

If John was like Icarus, his father was the one who granted the wings to him, not the man in the maze. For his father would have known John’s enticement to the sun, and would let him indulge himself, knowing it could be the thing that killed him.

This metaphor is beautiful, it makes sense. The only factor missing from John’s take on it was the sun.

Perhaps the sun was the revolution, heavy with fire and blood and the irresistible taste of freedom granted only by those willing to fight for it themselves. Perhaps the sun was in the form of a woman he hadn’t met yet.

Perhaps it was something different altogether.

 

 

 

Upon being introduced to General Washington, John wasn't sure how to react. For such a well known commanding man, he seemed mild mannered, sitting at his desk, spectacles perched on his nose.

“I am glad you could meet me, Laurens,” the General said. “You’re up for a promotion of sorts.”

“A promotion, sir?”

“You’ve shown brilliant, if not reckless, tactical courage on the battlefield. As you may or may not know, I am very fond of your friend Lafayette, he holds a spot in my heart. He was the one who requested you be moved to aide-de-camp, as a Lieutenant Colonel.”

“I am flattered, sir.”

“Don’t be,” the General said simply. “You’re not promoted yet. All I know of you is from Lafayette’s words, and we both know how the French romanticize everything."

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Washington folded his hands, watching John's reaction carefully. "You would be a very valued member of my staff, especially considering your ties to President Laurens of the Continental Congress."

And there it is. Of course Lafayette’s words alone didn’t sway the General, a hurricane couldn’t sway the General. John’s last name rang in the ears of every man on Washington’s staff as they decided who to promote next.

“If that’s the reason you’ve requested me, sir, I’d rather like to see myself out.”

It was a bold move, and John assumed he’d regret it soon enough. The silence that followed was the loudest John had ever encountered. Just like that, he’d lost his shot at the military. He’d likely be South Carolina bound by morning.

“Is there something you’re withholding, Mister Laurens?” The General asked, his face unreadable. Intrigue, maybe. Maybe something more, it was hard to tell.

“I withhold nothing.”

“About your father, I did not mean to insinuate any veiled objectives.”

“I am sure it was with good intent, General.” John kept his tone careful, yet unable to conceal entirely his distaste for the way the conversation was now directed.

“If you believe my intent to be pure, as you say you do, what are you masking?”

Laurens looked the General in the eyes. “I mask nothing.”

“Are you attempting an argument, Mister Laurens?” The General raised an eyebrow.

“I am attempting to divert the nature of this conversation. I appreciate your offer, General, and I now realize it to be foolish of me to turn down an opportunity to serve our country based on personal qualms. Please accept my apology.”

Washington’s face finally betrayed expression. Disappointment? Surely not. Surely the commanding officer would be above picking fights with soldiers.

“I accept it, Laurens. I only wish that you would speak your mind when asked, that is all.”

“I do, sir.”

Washington sighed, looked at Laurens with tired eyes and changed the subject. “Back to our business here. Lafayette thinks you an exemplary man, and our conversation moments ago was leading me to believe the same, I am, however, no longer convinced.”

“You would prefer me to argue with you, sir?”

Washington smiled and looked John up and down. “No. I thank you for remaining civil in my presence, I would just like a better sample of your character before I take you in as a trusted staff member.”

John remained silent.

“I have not the time or patience to explore your character and wit in the confines of a week, which is all the time you have to prove yourself to Hamilton.”

“Hamilton, sir?”

“My aide, Alexander Hamilton, will be the deciding factor of your promotion. I trust his incite like I would my own.”

“Where can I find him?”

Washington chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll find you. Tomorrow morning, most likely. Take to the east side of the camp, where you normally sleep. Do everything as you normally would, you’ll just have a tail for the rest of the week.”

“I… don’t know how to feel about that," John said honestly.

“Nor do I, frankly. But it can’t be helped,” he pauses, picks up John’s bag for him and hands it over. “Please, Mister Laurens, leave me to my devices.”

“Yes sir.”

Laurens turns on his heel and exits Washington’s tent, head still reeling from the almost argument and weight of what had been said.

Somewhere between the General’s stern words to him and his walk back to his cot, Laurens had decided that, no matter what motives Washington really had by offering him this new position, he was going to take it, and he was going to excel. His father be damned, he could prove himself.

He’d heard about Hamilton. Heard the whispers around the soldiers, and the occasional gossip from Lafayette. Ladies man, immigrant, courageous fighter, Washington’s scribe and assistant.

Men like Hamilton were not hard to find, and John knew he could outwit him. The Hamiltons of the world were in abundance, this one was nothing special. John had no doubts that, by the end of tomorrow, the Lieutenant Colonel will be as speechless and impressed as Lafayette seemed to be.

John laid in his cot, on his back, head still racing with excitement. He wanted the job, and he’d get it.

Hamilton had no chance of getting in the way of that.

 

 

 

John awoke to the shrill of a horn blowing and a few commanding officers yelling for the soldiers to rise. He did so, pulling on his breeches and jacket before stepping out into the brisk morning air.

He almost shrieked when he opened the flaps of the tent only to be faced with a dark haired officer, papers in hand, looking at John as if he’d already done something wrong.

"John Laurens. You're looking dignified this morning," the officer said.

“Is there a problem?” John barked, still on edge from being startled.

The man raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting something more. John took in his officer’s uniform and complied with the man’s insistent look.

“Is there a problem, _sir?"_

The man smirked. “Yes, unfortunately for you, there is a problem. And his name is Alexander Hamilton.”

Reflecting on that moment, truer words have never been spoken.

“Sir, please excuse me. I did not mean-“

“Congratulations, Laurens. You’ve officially failed your tests for today, I’ll be sure to report it to the General as soon as he returns.” The man- Hamilton- turned on his heel to walk away from him.

“You can’t do that!” John called after him.

“Can’t I?” Hamilton turned and smirked. “You might as well go back to bed, your work is done for the day.”

John stood, incredulous at the small frame of the man walking away from him. Two minutes into his evaluation and he’d completely destroyed his chances. It was so typical of him, he could hear his father’s scolding, turns out he had been right in so many of his accusations.

John caught up with the rest of his team, and went along with the drills. Hamilton, he noted, was absent the entire time.

It ate at him. The idea that, so soon into his training, he could’ve sullied his chances in a moment’s exchange with a short tempered officer.

It wasn’t until dusk that John decided he could talk some sense into Hamilton. Approach him kinder, smoother in his words. Seduce him with his wit and charm, and somehow make the Lieutenant Colonel forget about the exchange that morning.

He approached Hamilton’s cabin, still mulling over everything he planned to say to him. He knocked on the door three times, then waited patiently for an answer.

Hamilton opened the door, looked up at John’s smiling face, and promptly shut it with all his force.

John stood, incredulously.

“Lieutenant Colonel, I believe we may have got off on the wrong foot,” he called through the door.

No answer.

“I would like to apologize,” John swallowed his pride. “I would like to explain to you why I acted the way I did,” he feigned a chuckle, “sleep deprivation is a very serious thing.”

Of course he wasn’t actually sleep deprived. In reality, the smirk on the officer’s face made him want to punch it off him, but that wouldn’t be the best way to start this conversation.

“Mister Hamilton, please.”

No answer for almost a minute, until a voice from the other side of the door finally called out. “Go to bed, Laurens. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I’d rather like to resolve this before the sun sets, as it’s bad practice to leave feuds unfinished when the morning comes.”

Another pause, then Hamilton finally opened his door.

John looked at him with a hopeful smile, eager to straighten things out.

“Mister Laurens, if you were looking to kiss my ass, you’ve vastly overestimated your rank in the Continental Army.”

John opened his mouth to protest the officer's foul behavior, but was interrupted before he uttered the first syllable.

“Please keep away from my personal quarters as you are not invited. I have business to tend to,” he said, shutting the door once again.

So, impressing Hamilton would be hard. Under the moonlight on his walk back to his cot, this became very clear.

 

 

 

The next morning, he was up before the normal call for the soldiers, and sitting outside his tent, when Hamilton emerged from his cabin.

“Up early, I see.”

“Yes sir.” John replied.

“It’s futile. Drills haven’t started yet.”

“Nonetheless, it’s better to be prepared.”

“And just what are you preparing yourself for, Mister Laurens? Sleep deprivation, the very thing you claimed to be suffering from last night?”

“I am preparing for war, sir, the same as you. Last night, I was simply trying to explain myself to you.”

“And I’ll be explaining it to the General, so, by all means, continue with the halfhearted excuses for your insubordination.”

“I am not being insubordinate,” John said, then added half a beat later, “Sir.”

“A contradiction in itself.”

John opened his mouth for a reply, but was interrupted by the morning call issued to the soldiers. Drills start in ten minutes.

“I shall see you on the field, then.” Hamilton said, once again turning his back on John.

As far as conversations with Hamilton had gone, that was a pretty huge leap in pleasantries.

On the field, John knew the keen eye of Alexander Hamilton was up for grabs, so he fought for it. Worked harder, climbed higher, exhibited better discipline. Hamilton, of course, was not easily impressed.

Hamilton barked orders at the soldiers, standing above them. He was commanding in his presence, but at every break, he was back with the soldiers, laughing and bonding. John, it seemed, was always on the outskirts of these interactions.

It was unclear what made him so eager to prove himself to Hamilton. Based on conversations with Lafayette, it was a normal thing. Men and women alike competed for the attention of one Alexander Hamilton.

John, of course, was not after anything suggestive or sinister. He wanted to move up in ranks, and impressing the man was the only way to do that. After whatever horrid report he must’ve left for the General yesterday, God knows John needed something positive in his file. He would earn it, whether Hamilton would record it or not.

If anything, it was harder for John to catch Hamilton’s eye than any of the other officers. A few even commented on his form, praised him for his diligence. Hamilton never so much as looked at him.

There was once, while he was washing the sweat from his face in the basin, that he caught Hamilton’s eyes drifting towards him. Running his fingers through his hair, he turned to Hamilton, lips curved to form a boyish, inviting grin.

Hamilton’s stare lingered.

The man was impossible. A staring contest? Is that what this has become?

John decided to be the mature one and break eye contact, going back to cleaning his rifle.

 

 

 

Even with the tiresome drills and lack of decent rest, the camp still offered something to John. Every chance he got, he would meet with Lafayette and talk about anything he'd missed. Meeting up with the Frenchman was always comfortable, almost second nature.

The two men walked along the camp, careful to keep their voices low until they got to the river where Lafayette perched on a rock and John mindlessly watched the water flow.

“Tell me, how are you, friend Laurens?” Lafayette asked, his English heavily accented.

“I’m well.” Laurens replies weakly. “Tired from the monotonous drills, but otherwise well.”

“You should took this opportunity for sleep, then.”

“When’s the last time you and I had a chance to catch up? I’m not missing the remarkable tales of the Marquis de Lafayette. Fill me in.”

“You assume me more interesting than I am.”

“You are plenty interesting, friend.”

"Ah, you are quite right, Laurens. Shall I tell you about my recent escapades with an American girl from a pub?"

"I believe I can survive without it."

"Suit yourself," Lafayette said. "You are the one missing out."

"No, I believe the girl from the pub was the one missing out," John said mockingly. Lafayette made an exaggerated gesture as if he'd been hurt, John laughed, "Are my remarks unwarranted? My apologies, your ego needed a toning down anyways."

Lafayette pointed an accusing finger, "I will 'ave you know, Laurens, I am quite ladies man."

"You've said that before, friend. Your wife might feel differently."

"My wife cares not."

"Whatever you say," John taunted.

"What about yours, then?"

"What?"

"Your wife," Lafayette clarified. 

John took a formal tone, the same as he always had when addressing Martha. "She is well."

"In the time I 'ave known you, you 'ave spoken very little about her, no?"

"She is not my preferred topic for conversation."

"I see," the Frenchman dropped the subject. "What of your experiences at the camp, then?"

"Could be more pleasant, but otherwise fine. How about yourself?"

"I am able to find happiness where I go, dear Laurens."

"I don't doubt it," John admitted. "It's a good quality to have."

"The men have been pleasant. Mocking, but I handle it. They are sometimes scolded, I like to leave that to the General or his assistant, Hamilton."

John sighed. "We all do, I suppose."

Lafayette chuckled, "I assume you have met Monsieur Hamilton."

"I have."

"And how are you getting along. He is managing your evaluation, no?"

“Against his will, I’m sure.”

"I do not understand."

John sighed, ready to change the subject. "He's short tempered."

“You do not believe he likes you?”

“I’m not exactly in his social circle like you and Mulligan seem to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Hamilto--“ John cut off abruptly when a group of soldiers come running by. He switches to French. _“I mean Hamilton won’t give me a chance. If don’t have his backing I’ll never advance. He’s too frustratingly stubborn to get to know me, he has no idea if I’m fit for the job.”_

_“Yes, I understood that much_ ,” Lafayette shot back in his native tongue. “ _Mulligan and I aren't exactly in his circle, as you say. I wish to be his friend, but it's hard to tell where I stand, he is a very private man."_

_“He treats his friends the same way he treats his enemies?”_

_“You are not his enemy, dear Laurens.”_

_“Yeah, try telling him that.”_

 

 

  
It wasn’t until late that evening, when all the men had bathed in the river and dried their clothes, did he actually hold a real conversation with Hamilton again.

“John Laurens.”

John looked up at the unexpected call, only to see Hamilton standing in front, waiting on him, face unreadable. John silently rose to his feet and followed the officer out.

“Where are we going?”

Hamilton gave no answer, and Laurens accepted it. The two men walked quietly, Hamilton leading the way.

When they arrived at their destination, which John begrudgingly recognized as General Washington's tent, Hamilton pulled back the flap as if he owned it, and marched boldly to where his commanding officer was sitting at his desk.

“Sir.” He said in greeting.

Washington looked straight past Hamilton, straight to Laurens, who offered a weak smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

After an uncomfortable pause, the General finally broke the silence. When he spoke, he turned to Hamilton.

“Alexander, have you any idea why I called the two of you in today?”

“I’ve turned in my daily reports, I don’t know what else you’re asking, but I’d be happy to oblige. As far as he goes,” Hamilton gestured towards John, "I haven't the slightest."

Washington chuckled. “Allow me to enlighten you both. Mister Laurens, what do you know of Hamilton’s report on you from Monday?”

“I know it could not have been in my favor.”

Hamilton snickered, Washington raised his eyebrows at him.

“You left it blank, with one sentence at the bottom of the page.”

“I did.”

“Well,” Washington sighed, “I’ll let you explain to Mister Laurens why you decided to sully his military career so early in his evaluation.”

“I haven’t sullied anything, sir.”

“Do not argue, Hamilton. Explain.”

“I’m afraid I’ve explained it all, sir. It’s in the evaluation.”

“There’s nothing but garbage in your one sentence evaluation. In fact, I've never seen you write so succinctly. I need you to be honest with Laurens, and honest with me. If you won’t give him a chance, I’ll be forced to assign someone else.”

 _“That would be a tragedy.”_ Hamilton whispered in sarcastic French, just so the General couldn't hear.

“Hamilton.”

“Sir?”

“Give Laurens your evaluation, face to face.”

Hamilton didn’t miss a beat, taking a seat across from John, who followed his lead and pulled up a chair.

“Well,” the officer sighed. “Where do I start?”

“Time, Hamilton. You’re wasting it,” the General said sharply.

“Yes sir,” his attention turned back to John. “Frankly, Laurens, I find you contemptible. Your very essence is one of defeat, masquerading as one of nobility. I know nothing of your intellect, I assume it to be rather dim. Your military skills are lacking, only in the face of grave danger do you exhibit rationality of thought. You are here because of your father, and I will treat that fact with the respect it deserves.”

Hamilton wasted no time getting down to business. Both John and the General were slightly taken aback.

“My father has done nothing for me—“

“Is that so? Is that what your educated, cushioned upbringing has brought you? Denial? A deft resistance at any advance marking you as less than your father.”

“I am not less than my father.”

“You’re right, Laurens. You’re absolutely right. You’re worse,” Hamilton said, then reconsidered, leaning closer to Laurens. “So tell me, how many slaves will you be inheriting upon his death?”

The accusation left John stunned. He’s devoted his life to freeing those in bondage, and Hamilton acts as if he’s the one who put them there in the first place.

“I do not condone slavery, I detest it!” John shouted, rising from his chair. 

“But you benefit from it! Your privilege has blinded you to reality, Laurens.”

“The reality, Hamilton, is that you are attacking my character with no real proof of my wrongdoings! I have been very patient with you so far, Lieutenant Colonel. If, however, you plan to keep squawking your dissent, I recommend you and I step out of the tent and settle things."

Hamilton stood quick, his body language hostile and his face challenging. Their faces were but a breath away from each other, both men waiting on the other to make the first move. 

“Laurens, could you leave us alone for a moment?” Washington interrupted, rising from his own chair. 

“Of course.” John left the tent promptly, never looking back at Hamilton.

In John’s defense, he tried to walk away, he really did. But the canvas of the tent was thin and their words carried through the nighttime air, the darkness masking him from anyone’s view. It’s not that he was trying to eavesdrop, but things happen.

“—I’ll ask you again, Alex, why do you show such disdain for this boy?”

“I show him the amount of respect he commands.”

“This isn’t what this is about. I can read it in your face. No matter what you say, your features have always betrayed you to me.”

Hamilton didn’t respond, and from the outside John couldn’t tell if the silence was comfortable or smothering.

“Alexander,” the General said, voice much softer. “I feel that this is deeper than your own feelings towards the Laurens boy.”

“He’s not a boy, he’s older than me.”

“My concern for either of your ages is startlingly low, Alexander.”

More silence.

“I just don’t approve of some affluent southerner moving up in ranks because of his lineage, that’s all.”

“You don’t approve? Or are you jealous?”

"I am not jealous.”

“Right. Why would you be?” The General went on. “You both came from very similar upbringings, both showered with privilege and decency as children.”

“Do not taunt me,” Hamilton shot back, voice dangerously low.

“I am merely pointing out that perhaps you show such contempt for this man because of the familial support you think he receives.”

“I am sure the Laurens’s do a fine job of keeping their son happy and healthy.”

“Maybe. Perhaps that was why, when I brought up his family days ago, he grew defensive and restless.” John’s heart skipped a beat.

“What are you inferring?”

“Do not judge a book by its cover, Alexander. Had I judged you for who you seemed to be, you’d never have reached the heights you have. You, alone, are a miracle. Your accomplishments outnumb—“

“Are you quite finished, sir?” Hamilton snapped.

Washington sighed audibly. “I suppose I am.”

“Goodnight then, sir.”

“Alexander! Before you go, I feel I should notify you that you will be sharing your cabin with Mister Laurens from here on out.”

John’s head cocked to the side. No one had told him this, unless this was just a ploy from the General to get a rise out of his assistant. If it was the latter, it was certainly working.

“You jest.”

“I do not. I assigned you to him as a courtesy means. Had I hired him without your knowing, I’m sure you would have adamantly disapproved. Had I assigned him to his post without warning, it would seem premature, and talk would spread. The fact is, I’ve heard plenty about Laurens from Lafayette, and I trust his judgement. Laurens had the job before you laid eyes upon him.”

The tent grew silent. Laurens assumed it to be a joke, as this news was just as new to him as it seemed to be to Hamilton.

Finally, Hamilton spoke. “Shall I go tell Laurens, then?”

Washington chuckled. “I believe he already knows,” he said, barely raising his voice. “Do come back in, won’t you Laurens? I'm sure it is quite chilly outside the tent.”

John’s heart dropped from embarrassment. The most respected man in the entire army knew his newly appointed Lieutenant Colonel was pressed against his tent, eavesdropping in on his personal conversations. He walked back into the tent like a scolded child.

“Now then. I’m sure you heard all about your new living arrangements?” The General asked.

Still not meeting Hamilton’s eyes, John replied, “Yes sir.”

“Off you go, then. I expect nothing but the utmost professionalism from the two of you, understand?”

Simultaneously, they both uttered “Yes sir.”

As they walked out of the tent, the General called after them. “Oh, and Laurens?”

“Sir?”

“Congratulations on your promotion.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah this happened. 
> 
> sorry for the slow pace, things will pick up considerably in chapter two. I just have a hard time believing Hamilton would've gotten along with Laurens immediately, so it's gotta build up. (The Icarus thing will reappear too) Prepare yourselves bc it's gonna get gay and angsty. Gangsty, if you will. *ba dum tiss*
> 
> Comments and criticism and kudos honestly make my day, so tell me if you want me to pick this up again, and any suggestions you have. Thanks for reading!!


	2. Chapter 2

When John and Hamilton were ordered to live together on the camp, it was clear to everyone involved that it would prove to be an error in judgment on behalf of Washington, even the soldiers were talking about it. Washington, nevertheless, insisted. From the moment John entered his new living space, he knew it wouldn’t be easy.

On the first day, Hamilton made an effort to not speak to John, and John gladly returned the favor. The two didn’t have a real conversation until three days of sharing a cabin.

“Washington was talking about you.”

John looked up from his perch on his bed, glancing warily at the man at the desk. He was still turned around, quill still scratching the parchment like he hadn’t said anything.

“I’m sorry?” John asked.

“Washington was talking about you,” the younger man repeated. “Yesterday, in his tent.”

“And why would that be?”

“He wanted to send you over to Brandywine tomorrow with a group of his special recruits. He wanted his most trusted to scope it out before we make any moves.”

John’s heart sped up with excitement. He hadn’t seen real action in far too long. “Why hasn’t he brought this up to me?”

“Because I talked him out of it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I talked him out of it.”

“For what reason?” John demanded.

“Confidential,” Hamilton said simply, shutting his book and turning his full attention to John.

He couldn’t believe it. Every chance this little Caribbean nightmare had to damage John’s reputation he pounced on. “I don’t understand why you’re like this with me, Hamilton.”

“I don’t understand why you’re like this in general, Laurens.”

“If you don’t like me, then go,” John rose from his bed. “Leave my cabin.”

“It’s not your cabin, Laurens.” Hamilton chuckled. “It was actually _my_ cabin until Washington assigned you to it.”

“I haven’t forgotten the General’s orders.”

“And what if I don’t leave?” Hamilton stood up challengingly.

“It would be in your best interest if you did,” John clarified.

“Is that a threat?” Hamilton asked. “I do not fear you, Mister Laurens.”

“I don’t want your fear, at this point I’m not even asking for your respect. If you can’t at least be tolerable, I will physically remove you from this cabin and this army, regardless of the consequences.  I just want to be able to live in peace without you going out of your way to ruin things for me.”

“I’m not going out of my way. It’s no trouble at all,” Hamilton grinned smugly.

“Hamilton, I’m begging you—“

“Oh this should be good.”

“I’m begging you to stop being a pest just for the next few weeks here. I didn’t enlist to have someone breathing down my neck and looking for flaws every minute, I enlisted to fight, to help the war effort. That’s what I intend to do. “

“I as well.”

“If we have the same goal, stop being so insufferable,” John pleaded.

“Why, John, I’m offended,” Hamilton mocked. “I’ve been nothing but hospitable to you.”

“Thin ice, Hamilton. Thin ice,” John warned, and left the room.

 

 

 

The cabin itself was a modest little place, but the combined personalities of its occupants made it seem even smaller. It’s low ceilings and creaky floors just weren’t enough to hold the both of them.

They’d still bicker about things, like when to blow the candles out (“ _It’s the middle of the night, Hamilton.” “That didn’t stop the Trojans, Laurens.” “The Trojans were savages.” “And so are you, now go back to bed.”)_ They’d bicker about tidiness ( _“For Christ’s sake Laurens make your bed.” “Just tend to your own affairs, I can handle myself.” “Clearly. That’s why you act as if you were raised by wolves.”  “Oh, for the love of—“)_

Life could be going better, but no one had punched anyone yet so John felt like that was a win.

 

 

 

About a week in to their partnership John finally sat down to write a letter to his Martha.

An aide had run around camp, warning soldiers to get their letters turned in before tomorrow morning if they wanted them to go out before the battle.

It was always hard for him, finding the words to say to her. She needed love, tenderness, and affection, none of which he seemed to be able to provide. It’s not that he didn’t love her, it’s that he didn’t love her in the way she loved him.

He’d been working on this particular letter for a few days, tweaking the wording to sound more sincere than he actually felt. Martha was a lovely woman, but the marriage was a mistake, a quick fix to a big problem neither of them knew how to solve.

The problem, as it turns out, happened to be the best thing to happen to Martha. John loved his daughter, he really did, but not as much as Martha. The child was a miracle, as every child is, but it didn’t hold the place in his heart he knew it should.

Any traces of warmth towards his family had been vacated by war, and John knew there was nothing he could say to hide just how bad things were for him. Domestic life wasn’t cut out for someone forged from sin like he was.

John wasn’t sure how much of that Martha actually knew, but she had to know he had no interest in her body. He could pretend all he wanted, but things just weren’t as they should be, and they never could be for him. It was a fact he’d long since accepted.

So, John sat down and did what he always did. He treaded carefully with his father, and filled Martha’s letter with comforting words they both knew to be untrue.

He was at the desk hastily finishing his letters when he noticed Hamilton watching from his bed.

“If I were you I’d start writing,” John called to him. “I don’t know if you heard, but we need these letters in by daybreak.”

“I heard,” Hamilton said, diverting his attention to some papers in his lap.

“This isn’t a rule to be broken, Hamilton. If you want your personal letters mailed out it’s mandatory you do it now.”

“Worry about your own affairs, Laurens.”

“I’m just trying to help,” John raised his hands in defense.

“Thanks, but don’t.”

 

 

 

 _“Why doesn’t Hamilton write letters?”_ John asked Lafayette one day as they were copying orders from Washington for all his aides.

 _“I’m not sure,”_ Lafayette said. “ _I think he’s alone.”_

_“Alone?”_

_“He hasn’t said much, but I am led to believe he doesn’t have a family at all. I know his parents are deceased or gone—“_

_“He’s an orphan?”_

_“Yes, but I am unsure if he has other family or a wife,”_ Lafayette paused. _“Some speculate Washington is his real father.”_

John’s eyes widened. _“No.”_

Lafayette grinned mischievously, loving the gossip. _“Yes. I do not believe it, however. His father was of Scottish nobility, and that’s all he told me.”_

_“He’s probably pretty proud of that.”  
_

_“I suppose so.”_

_“Would he lie about something like that?”_

_“I don’t see a motive, other than looking like a complete ass.”_ The two men giggled.

“ _If those who come from money look like asses, I’m afraid you’re the biggest of them all, my friend.”  
_

_“Wealth is but a small part of me,”_ Lafayette said.

_“Yes, that explains your silk jacket with the double breasted gold buttons.”_

_“Do not criticize my fashion choices, Mister Laurens. I’ll be forced to report you.”_

_“Please do,”_ Laurens teased. _“Maybe I’ll be sent home and I won’t have to copy another letter ever again.”_

_“How many have you done?”_

_“Twenty.”_

_“Twenty two.”_

_“You bastard,”_ John grinned, leaning up and trying to write faster.

 

 

 

Washington needed a piece of correspondence delivered 11 miles away from camp, and that was all he said.

Since Hamilton had effectively ruined John’s chances to spy at Brandywine, John was the first to volunteer. “I will go, sir.”

Lafayette nodded, “I agree. Let John go and Alexander and I will stay here, no?”

“Absolutely not,” Hamilton said, already rising to his feet. “Sir, I believe I should be the one to go.”

“Explain,” Washington said simply.

“I’m the only one who has experience delivering messages of such high priority. Not that these gentlemen aren’t trustworthy, but logically I am the obvious choice.”

Washington opened his mouth to say something, but John interrupted. “Sir, Hamilton is needed at base. If he’s gone, you’ll have no one to undergo the _tireless_ and _dangerous_ job of writing letters to Congress from the safety of a command tent.”

“Sir, I disagree--”

“I don’t believe His Excellency asked for your agreement.” John snapped. “Sir, with all due repsect—“

“John Laurens clearly does not understand his place in this army, sir.”

“Alexander Hamilton has clearly overestimated his worth as more than a quill pincher, sir.”

“I’ve had enough!” Washington interrupted. “Laurens, you will go. Hamilton, you will stay and help Lafayette with his letters.”

John grinned smugly, took the letter from Washington, and exited the tent without another word.

 

 

 

 _“Of all the godforsaken men in this army, he chooses Laurens,”_ Hamilton grumbled angrily in French, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen on the room since John left.

_“John Laurens is a good man, Alexander.”_

_“If he’d stop trying to worm his way where he doesn’t belong, I suppose he could be.”_

Lafayette set his quill down and looked across the table at his friend. _“His Excellency doesn’t make mistakes in choosing his staff. Take you and I for example,”_ he said smugly.

 _“He’s here so he can write to his father and beg for assistance,”_ Hamilton said, passive aggressively scribbling on his page.

_“His father?”_

_“Henry Laurens, President of the Continental Congress.”_

_“Oh.”_

“Boys,” Washington interrupted from his desk. “If you’re going to talk in French at least have the decency to leave the proper nouns out of it so I don’t have to listen to the two of you criticizing Lieutenant Colonel Laurens.”

Lafayette turned back to him looking startled, Hamilton kept writing.

“We’re not criticizing him, sir,” Hamilton said, still looking at his papers. “We say nothing but the truth.”

“His truth—or yours?”

“Due respect, General, but I have work to do.”

“Yes, and I, the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, have nothing better to do than bicker with you."

"Sir, I—"

"Get to work, Hamilton."

 

 

 

The trip up to deliver Washington’s letter was easy enough, the trip back was certifiably hell.

The rain fell so hard he couldn’t see in front of him, he was soaked to the bone, his horse was spooked and constantly veering off course. It was taking him about three times as long getting back as it was getting there in the first place.

With tired eyes and a heavy heart, John saw the lights of the camp and kicked his horse to speed towards it, ducking through tree branches in his haste to get there.

Upon entering the camp, John didn’t dismount until he and his horse were in the stable. Finally, with a roof over his head and the rain not flooding his field of vision, he felt some relief. Drenched and shaking in the night air, John tended to his horse before securing him to his post and running out to his cabin.

He opened the door as quietly as he could, fully expecting to see Hamilton’s sleeping form on his cot, but instead he was wide awake, curled up on his bed and staring at John with wide eyes.

“Hamilton,” John said, fighting the door closed behind him. He paused, taking in the sound of the muted rain hitting their roof. “You should be sleeping, we’re calling drill tomorrow. Well, assuming the rain lets up.”

The man on the cot nodded, “Yes, absolutely,” he said quietly.

John turned his back to Hamilton and started to work on stripping off his drenched clothing, starting with his jacket then fumbling at his shirt buttons.

“Laurens,” Hamilton said. “You’re hurt.”

John turned around curiously. “What?”

“The back of your shoulder,” Hamilton rose from his cot and approached John. “What happened?”

John reached dumbly at his back, and drew his hand away, looking at his bloody fingers. “Oh.”

“Washington trusts you with sensitive correspondence and you can’t even keep yourself safe on the trip,” Hamilton remarked.

“I’ve had a long night, and I’d appreciate it if you’d save your schoolboy taunts for the morning.” John shot back, still trying to get his wet clothes off. “I am cold, tired, and injured. Please go back to whatever it is that you were doing, I’ll tend to my wounds. I am, after all, a soldier.”

Hamilton grinned and raised his hands in defense. “Fine, fine. You have fun with that.”

John sighed, and finally got his shirt off to where he could feel his back. It was cut, most likely from a tree branch, and mostly numbed from the chilling rain. His shirt lay on the ground, bloody and soaked. He’d have to find a way to wash it after he bandaged his wound.

As John soon found out the hard way, cleaning and bandaging your own back wound was not an easy thing to do. After four good attempts to help himself, he decided to swallow his pride. “Hamilton.”

Upon hearing his name, Hamilton turned from his desk to John. He paused, eyes widening briefly before regaining the smug look he wore so often. “Are we having problems nursing our own wounds, mister I’m-a-real-soldier?”

John sighed. “Please just help me, Hamilton.”

He knew he made a pathetic sight. Sure, he was built well, but he was also visibly still shaking from the cold, wet as a dog, and bleeding from behind his right shoulder.

Hamilton rose without a word and beckoned John to his cot. He followed the man, and sat in front of him, Hamilton crossing his legs behind him and opening their medical supplies.

“How did this happen, anyway?” the man asked.

“I don’t know, honestly. Must’ve caught on a tree while my horse was going wild in the floodwater. I didn’t even feel it until you pointed it out.” The last bit of his sentence was cut off due to a rumble of thunder outside, shaking the walls of their cabin.

Hamilton jumped behind him, far more startled by the noise than soldiers seemed to be at gunshots.

John decided not to comment on it.

“So, I assume you had an excellent time failing at the job you were assigned to,” Hamilton finally said.

“I didn’t fail, I just got caught in the rain on the way back. You know, you’re a very judgmental person. So quick to jump to the worst case scenario.”

“It’s a gift.”

“I suppose a lowly sense of humor and lack of people skills are a gift too, then.”

“If you’re going to continue, I’m going to leave your wound open for the night, Laurens.”

The pair sat in silence, Hamilton tending to John’s back, hands lingering just a little longer than necessary when he was finished.

“All done,” he finally said.

Laurens turned around to face the man, finally deciding to bring up what was on his mind. “When I came in, you seemed on edge. Are you… is the storm… are you okay, Hamilton?”

“Please go to bed, Laurens.”

“I’m not taking pity on you, I’d just like to know what it is that’s bothering you and why you’re trying to mask it.”

“I’m _trying_ to go to sleep, Laurens. Which would be easier if you’d get off my bed.”

“Fine then.” John rose from the bed, stretching his limbs. “Thank you for caring for me.”

“I didn’t care for you, I tended to you. There’s a difference.”

“Not everything is a competition, Hamilton.”

“I’m not trying to make it one.”

John let out a chuckle, even with the world basically falling down around them Hamilton was still Hamilton. Still the same, incorrigible Hamilton.

 

 

 

When John woke up, it was still dark outside, the rain was even louder than before, and his shoulder was aching. Groaning, he sat up in his bed and noticed candlelight coming from Hamilton’s bedside table, then he noticed Hamilton himself.

His eyes seemed red and swollen, too large while his body was folded up too small. The candlelight dipped and flickered across his face, giving away his entirely too vulnerable expression.

John carefully called out to him, and the man made no sign of hearing him. Finally, John raised his voice even louder, above the sound of the rainfall, and got the man’s attention.

“Are you alright?” He asked earnestly.

He collected himself, then breathlessly, scarcely more than a whisper, answered, “Go back to bed, Laurens.”

He’d seen this before, his brother used to have fits like this, he’d awaken in the night to nothing but screams without meaning. When John tried to comfort him, there wasn’t much he was able to do. He would sit and hold his brother until the seizing stopped, until he went back to sleep.

John, as usual, decided to not listen to anything Hamilton had said. He arose from his cot, and crossed the room to Hamilton’s where he crouched in front of his bed. “How can I help?” He whispered.

Hamilton, breathless, visibly shaking, shook his head vigorously. “Just go back to bed.”

And suddenly Hamilton seemed as vulnerable and small as his little brother had been all those years ago. The man could be insufferable, but John couldn’t let him alone like this.

“Move over,” he said gently, crawling into Hamilton’s cot. He picked his cloth kerchief from the table and handed it to the man across from him.

Everything moved in a dreamlike pace, the way he wiped the man’s face, the way they looked at each other, then promptly away. Hamilton would shudder every time the thunder picked up, effectively shaking the entire bed. His tremors got so bad John moved behind him, leaning his back against the wall, and pulled the taller man to his chest, one hand crossing protectively over his collarbone. His movements were jerky, trying to be soothing while still learning how to comfort someone so shielded.

For the remainder of the storm, no words passed between them. John held the younger man through his breathless whimpers and fits of shaking. When the storm slowed down, Hamilton’s breathing slowed with it.

John assumed he’d gone to sleep, so he finally leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes easily, exhausted from his travels. He was almost asleep when Hamilton spoke up, “Thank you, John.”

He opened his eyes to see the man in front of him removing his hand from his chest and sitting up to face him. Hamilton, in the dying candlelight, was ethereal. Hair mussed and sloppily pulled back from his face, eyes still red and too wide. John’s heart fluttered, and he looked away.

“I did nothing. You helped yourself.”

“I just… the storm—“

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” John interrupted. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Hamilton tilted his head, “Then what shall I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll talk to the General tomorrow; I’ll make up for the things I said about you earlier.”

“First, you don’t owe me anything, if that’s what you’re getting at,” John said. “Second, I have no reason to believe that me seeing you in tears will make you any more tolerable in our work relations.”

Hamilton’s lips curled into a smile, a shining, foreign thing on his swollen face. “Fine then, I’ll simply remind him how hopelessly underqualified you are for your position.”

“Again? I believe that argument is getting old, I’d advise you to devise a new one.”

“Ah, I see. Any suggestions?”

“Hmm,” John playfully considered. “Simply tell him I am far too handsome for my own good, and that any time spent with you or Lafayette will result in the degradation of my natural beauty—“ he was cut off by Hamilton throwing a pillow at his face, which he caught with ease and threw back.

The two men were silent for a while, quietly looking at each other until John said, “You should get some sleep.”

“You should put on a shirt.”

John looked down at his naked torso, having completely forgotten to re-clothe himself after Hamilton cleaned his wound. “Well,” he sighed. “You’re right about that one.”

“I’m always right,” Hamilton replied smugly.

They sat in silence for a few moments, neither one wanting to break the blissfully surreal atmosphere flooding the room. Free of responsibilities, free of stress, free of war.

Eventually, John decided sleep was more important than living in the moment, so he rose to his feet to go to his bed.

“Where are you going?” Hamilton called.

“Sleep,” John replied, rubbing his eyes as if to prove himself.

Hamilton hesitated, looked at his hands, then at the ground, as if he were contemplating saying something. John stopped, waiting for him to speak, but he never did.

“Good night, Hamilton.”

“Good night, John.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I couldn't organically put in as much gangst as I wanted to, but this was a start. Sorry it's so late, I've been debating about whether or not to actually post it so, yeah, here I am. I hope you all actually like it.
> 
> Please continue to leave comments and kudos, because I literally squeal like an idiot when that happens (the comments on the last one literally made my year, so thanks for that). Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

They were awoken by the sound of the cabin door opening.

Hamilton was startled awake first, as the figure in the doorway approached him. “Hamilton, Laurens, come with me,” he said, lifting his lantern.

John blinked against the light, still half asleep.

“Lafayette?” He muttered.

“Get dressed. Be at the command tent within the next five minutes,” Lafayette commanded, spinning and exiting out the door.

“The hell?” John said, moving to a sitting position on his bed.

“I don’t know. Get up,” Hamilton said, already rising out of bed. “I have a feeling it’s nothing good.”

They were dressed and exiting their cabin within the minute, speed walking through mud to the command tent. The walk was completely silent, neither man wanting to risk waking any sleeping soldiers. By the time they peeled back the entrance flap to Washington’s tent, John was a bundle of nerves.

The general was sitting with Lafayette and two other aides, sitting around a letter and a small map. They were muttering to each other, stopping abruptly when the two men entered.

“Sir?” Hamilton said.

“Hamilton, Laurens, sit down. I trust Lafayette told you the issue?” Washington asked.

“Not yet, sir. He seemed to be in a hurry to get back here,” John answered.

“The issue, sir?” Hamilton asked.

“Brandywine,” Washington sighed. “The battle is inevitable.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve lost over thirty men just in skirmishes alone. Redcoats are on their way as we speak. We expect they’ll be at the north side of the camp by the tenth.”

The men were silent for a moment before Hamilton broke it. “What do you need, sir?”

“Words, Hamilton,” Washington held out several pieces of parchment, to which Hamilton scurried to get them. “I need your words. I need a speech by sunrise.”

“Sunrise, sir?”

“Two hours.”

“I see,” Hamilton nodded. “I’ll have it done in one.”

“Laurens.”

“Yes?” John answered eagerly.

“Write to your father. Tell him what we have and what we need. I imagine the battle won’t be quick. If they can afford to send reinforcements, we need them.”

John’s heart dropped. “Yes sir.”

“We need every man we can get,” Washington said quietly, more to himself than to the other men in the tent.

“If you need an extra hand, sir,” John spoke up nervously. “I’d be willing to step in and help the battle.”

The tent went quiet, everyone just looking at John in puzzlement.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Washington turned to him. “Aides do not do battle. We need you here.”

“Not to argue, sir, but I don’t understand why I am not included in the ‘every man we can get’ clause.”

“The same goes for me,” Hamilton agreed. “I would like to fight as well.”

Another silence fell over the tent as everyone looked at the two aides in complete shock.

“Laurens, write the letter. Hamilton, your speech. I do not have time to squabble with you.”

“Forgive me sir, but I don’t believe—“ Hamilton started.

“Leave the room, boys,” Washington said, looking at them from over his glasses and dropping his formal tone.

“Yes sir,” they said in unison.

John turned to exit immediately, not waiting to see if Hamilton would follow. He stomped through the wet ground back to his cabin and shut the door behind him.

 

 

_Write to your father._

John cringed. He sat down and picked up a quill and paper, staring at the blankness before him.

_Write to your father._

Of course this is where it would lead. This is where everything would lead when it came to Washington.

_Write to your father._

“Over my dead body,” John grumbled, moving the quill and paper back.

“Your dead body, Laurens?”

John jumped and looked at the door behind him, where Hamilton was entering, still looking down at his speech.

“Write your speech, Hamilton.”

“Write your letter, Laurens.”

Hamilton looked up for a moment only to glare at the man in front of him, then looked back down. “If you’re not using the desk do move over and let me use it.”

John defiantly just scooted over in the seat and padded the small spot he vacated. Hamilton, too absorbed in his writing, wedged himself into the small space and dipped his quill.

“I wasn’t actually expecting you to sit.”

Hamilton didn’t answer, just kept writing.

“Goddamn it,” John muttered, edging himself out of the seat. “The letter is useless. No soldier will be able to deliver it in time. It’s busy work.”

Hamilton still didn’t respond.

“Thank you for your wise words, Alexander. I can always count on you.”

Hamilton gave a silent thumbs up with his right hand and continued writing.

 

 

To nobody’s surprise, Washington had been right: there was to be a battle at Brandywine.

Here’s what Washington had been wrong about: John Laurens was _definitely_ going to be a part of it.

Hamilton, after delivering Washington’s speech within the hour as promised, walked straight back to their cabin where he found John sitting motionless.

“I feel there’s something we should discuss, Laurens,” Hamilton said impatiently.

John looked up and raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“Your wish to fight,” Hamilton answered. “The argument with Washington.”

“Tend to your own affairs, Hamilton,” John sighed.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then learn how.”

“You put the idea in my head, Laurens,” Hamilton paced the floor. “And now I can’t get it out.”

“Yet you still won’t fight, will you?” John asked.

“I can’t disobey direct orders,” Hamilton sighed.

“Then I’ll do it.”

There was a pause. “What?” Hamilton asked quietly.

“I’m going to fight,” John stood to face Hamilton, making up his mind as he spoke. “You can stay under a roof writing your whole life through, but I cannot.”

“Laurens—“

“I’m not just here to write letters to my father, Hamilton,” John asserted. “I’m tired of it. I have more to offer than that.”

“You’re doing this to prove yourself?”

“I’m doing this because I have to.”

Hamilton just looked at him for a moment before nodding slowly. “Okay,” he finally said.

“Okay?” John asked. “What do you mean ‘okay’?”

“I’ll find you a gun.”

John tilted his head. “You’re willing to help me go against the general’s orders?”

“In this case, yes,” Hamilton said. “Tell anyone and you’ll wish you died in battle, hear me?”

“Of course.”

“Sun’s coming up in just a few minutes,” Hamilton peeked out the window.

“We’d better get moving, then,” John smiled wickedly.

 

 

Hamilton crept through the supply quarters to retrieve a musket. He was the slyer of the two men, he was also the only one who could talk his way out of a dishonorable discharge if caught going against orders.

John tapped his foot impatiently, feeling the first beams of sunlight coming over the earth. The sun hadn’t peaked yet, but they needed to get this done soon.

Hamilton emerged from the shed with a huge smile on his face and a musket in his hand. “Come on,” he muttered, tiptoeing back to the cabin. John was almost giddy on the way there, every nerve in his body alight with adrenaline. Things were going perfectly, and they were mere yards away from the cabin, until they heard the footsteps.

Hamilton silently put an arm out to stop John. They listened carefully, only to hear what sounded like Washington and Lafayette pacing around camp, practicing Hamilton’s speech.

Eyes wide, John muttered a quiet “Shit,” before Hamilton sprung into action.

“Follow me,” he whispered, grabbing John by the hand and leading him to the far side of a cabin that was definitely not theirs.

“Where are we going?” John said.

“You want to get caught by Washington with a musket in your hand, be my guest,” Hamilton whispered, sliding down to a sitting position on the side of the cabin.

John mimicked him, silently shaking his head. “This is absurd,” he said.

“Washington won’t pace all the way back here, he has limits,” Hamilton shrugged. “Trust me, I know.”

John watched at Hamilton silently laid his gun on the ground. He leaned his head against the cabin and listened mindlessly to Washington’s muffled speech, heart beating in his ears. Once he was calm enough to actually hear it clearly, he smiled at Hamilton’s words.

“The threshold of a new Eden?” He quoted back to him, snorting. “Really?”

“It’s poetic and it’ll rally the troops,” Hamilton shrugged. “Don’t be jealous of my writing talents, John. Jealousy is not a good color on you.”

John breathed out a laugh, looking at Hamilton. “Right, because I’m so jealous of your manic wordiness.”

“I’m glad you’re finally admitting it,” Hamilton smiled.

John chuckled and turned back to the horizon, where they could see the top of the sun peaking over the horizon.

“Ever notice how sunrise is different after a storm?” Hamilton asked.

“What do you mean?” John tilted his head.

“It’s brighter, somehow. More alarming,” Hamilton mused. “It stops illuminating and starts uncovering, if that makes sense. It’s like the sun knows what the night just did and it trying to make it better.”

John smiled. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

"You know, Egyptians used to believe that the sun god Ra would sail the sun in a boat, and when the sun set he was going to the underworld. When it rose, he was coming back. He would make trips to the underworld just to bring light to people."

"Really?" John asked absently, just listening to Hamilton's voice.

“And in Greek mythology, Helios would take his chariot and ride it across the sky each day, and that's what made the sunrise," Hamilton said. "Then, one day, he let his son Phaethon borrow it. Phaethon wanted to prove himself as the son of a God. But, he couldn't control it and ended up crashing it into the earth and almost incinerating the entire planet."

“That so?” John asked bemusedly, entrapped in Hamilton’s gaze that was still set on the rising sun.

“Not the most pleasant story, I know. The point is, almost every civilization has tried to make sense of it. The way I see it, there isn’t much to make sense of. It’s just the sun. There are few things in this world that don’t need to be analyzed, but I like to believe the sun is one of them,” Hamilton sighed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” John responded quietly, looking at Hamilton. “Yes, it is.”

 

 

By the time the sun had fully arisen, Washington and Lafayette had finally retreated far enough to where John and Alexander could sneak back into their cabin undetected.

“We have a matter of hours before they arrive,” Hamilton said. “I’ll be caught up in the command tent, Washington and Lafayette will both be on the field. For God’s sake, Laurens, don’t let them spot you.”

“Okay,” John nodded, zipping his boots and reaching to put on his coat.

“This isn’t a brawl in a bar, this is war. If you decide against fighting, join me in the tent. If you stick with it, keep your head down. And pray to whatever God it is you believe in.”

“Okay.”

There was a silence as Hamilton approached John, who was looking down at his coat buttons. Hamilton took a hand and gently lifted John’s chin.

“You sure you want to do this?” He asked, eyes sincere.

John gulped. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m sure.”

Hamilton paused, words on his lips that he seemed to want to utter, but didn’t. He just nodded silently and stepped back, turning to face his writing again.

John let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “How do I look?” He asked, giving a twirl in his combat uniform.

Hamilton smiled. “Like a true American.”

John gave an overly dramatic salute and turned on his heel to exit the cabin.

 

 

From his position on the field, John could see Hamilton buzzing around the command tent, light on his feet. With Washington on the field, it was his duty to keep these things in line.

He could see Hamilton’s slim figure in the command tent, ordering aides around. He could see Washington towering above the army. Heart beating ferociously, he dared not second guess himself. At this juncture, he couldn’t afford to.

He took a deep breath and adjusted his hold on his gun. He glanced at the men around him, each anticipating death in his own way. Everyone ready and willing to pay the ultimate price if it came down to it.

By the time the full British regiment had arrived in Brandywine, Washington’s army was already waiting.

The problem was, they were waiting in the wrong direction.

It happened fast, John felt a splatter of blood coat his face from the man next to him as he went down. He looked back, dumbstruck, to see what had to be hundreds of redcoats advancing from the rear.

“Mon dieu,” He heard Lafayette say from somewhere up front. “Bout and attack!”

The men ran to meet the British before they could get into Philadelphia. John, ears ringing with the sound of gunshots, blindly followed the rest of the men.

John’s legs were shaking as he was running, loading his gun. Men screamed and fell all around him. He knew he was wrong, he knew he should’ve stayed in the tent with Hamilton, but his pride got the best of him. He wasn’t a good aide, but he could be a good soldier.

The closer they drew, the louder the screams got. Some were battle cries, some screams of misery, and some shrill notes of nothing filled the air around him. By the time he was in the thick of it, he had gone deaf to the screams. The thick smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air around him as he scrambled for reason among the chaos.

The British cut through them like butter, leaving soldier after soldier bleeding out, choking and gargling on the ground. John wanted, _needed,_ to turn back, to retreat to the command tent with Hamilton and the rest, but he knew he couldn’t. It was too late.

In the midst of it all, he locked eyes with a redcoat, running toward him with raised bayonet. As far as John could tell, there were two kinds of killers in war: those that go for anyone, and those that pick one target after another. And he had been targeted. He stood still, as if he was too petrified to move, and ducked out at the last minute, causing the redcoat to stumble over him.

_Go,_ John thought. _He’s on the ground._ John scrambled to straddle the soldier before he could find his feet. The soldier, disoriented, hit John in the nose with the butt of his rifle. John’s vision blurred, momentarily dazed but unwilling to shift control of the fight. He grabbed the rifle and tossed it into the crowd of men, away from the redcoat’s grasp.

The man’s eyes were wide and scared. John felt a tang of guilt, but swallowed it. This was war, and in war there is no room for a gray area. Do or die.

Hovering over the man in the redcoat, no different in appearance than himself, he felt a shift. And finally, in this whole war, he’s in control of something. He decides whether the man under him lives or dies.

He closed his eyes while he did it. He couldn’t watch the life go out of the man, could barely stand the spray of warm blood that covered him as he ended it.

He sat back on his knees, dazed at his own actions. He just killed a man. He felt rushes of air pass by his face as the world around him shrunk. He just took someone else’s life.

He felt a blow to the back of his head and stumbled to his knees. A redcoat took advantage of the situation and ran past him, stabbing somewhere in his stomach with his bayonet as he went.

As John fell to the ground, he smiled sickly at the irony of it all. Maybe he was going to die here. Maybe he deserved to.

 

John Laurens, Icarus of the revolution, woke up the next day alone.

He tipped his head up, disoriented, and groaned aloud at the dizziness it caused. He peeked an eye open to scan the room, his cabin, for Hamilton. The man was nowhere to be found.

John wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but it was like he was on a boat. Like his limbs were too heavy and the world around him was warping like waves on a sea. Even with his eyes shut tight, he couldn’t shake the feeling.

After laying on his back for what felt like hours, Hamilton finally arrived back in the cabin. John didn’t quite have the strength or desire to open his eyes, but he could hear the light yet urgent footsteps that had become so familiar to him.

The footsteps approached closer and closer to him, yet John still found himself unable to open his eyes. There was a pause, then he felt cold fingers brush the sweaty strands of hair from his forehead, lingering just a second too long.

Heart pounding like British cannon fire, John mustered up the strength to open his eyes.

There was Hamilton, standing over him like a worried mother, eyes wide that he had been caught. The expression was wiped away quick and traded for a more neutral one.

“John?” He asked quietly.

John blinked a few times before he answered. “Yes?”

“Do you know what happened?”

Eyes drifting to a far corner of the room, John contemplated. “Some of it.”

“You got hurt.”

“I can tell,” John grunted.

“And we lost.”

John silently closed his eyes and thumped his head back against the pillow. All that bloodshed for nothing.

“You got hit in the head, you were bleeding. And you were stabbed in the abdomen by a bayonet.”

“What a day,” John mumbled.

Hamilton chuckled dryly. “Indeed. If it’s any consolation, Lafayette is wounded as well.”

John felt his eyes fly open. “Lafayette is wounded? Why would that be of consolation to me?”

“I don’t know,” Hamilton shrugged. “He’s a good soldier and he’s hurt. So are you.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not fully sure, but I know Washington hasn’t left his bedside since. Greene and I have been doing all his duties since he received the news.”

“Why aren’t I with him? In medical?”

“You weren’t supposed to fight, remember? I can’t have you turn yourself in like that.”

John nodded sleepily, the sea-sick sensation from before arising in him again.

“You fixed me?” John asked.

“No. Unfortunately, I’m not a competent medic. I made, um, friends with a nurse from medical. She’s been the one tending to you.”

“Friends?” John smiled lazily.

Hamilton flushed red. “Friends.”

Had John not been so dizzy, he may have laughed at that. “Is he going to make it?” He asked after a short pause.

“Who?”

“Lafayette.”

“Of course he will,” Hamilton confirmed. “Washington is just watching over him till he pulls through completely.”

“Am I going to make it?” John added quietly.

“I have no doubts,” Hamilton answered. “You’re far too stubborn to just die.”

“As are you,” John retorted, eyes closing without his consent.

“Do you hurt?” Hamilton asked.

“Yeah, kind of,” John said, voice growing weaker.

“Are you still tired from the medication?”

“Very.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just looking at each other.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to yourself, then,” Hamilton spoke up. “Get some rest,” he said, pacing away from the bed.

John made a small sound of agreement and dozed off within the minute.

 

John wasn’t sure what day it was anymore. From what he could tell, it was dark outside. He felt like it had been dark outside for days.

He breathed in deep through his nose only to wince at the pain it caused in his abdomen. It made his vision blur and sprung tears to his eyes.

It seemed that the medication had finally, for the most part, worn off. Wide awake and in searing pain, John just looked at the ceiling. At least he wasn’t on a boat anymore.

In his whirlwind of sudden clarity and thought, only two words from his conversation with Hamilton became clear. _We lost_.

John thought back to the battle, back to the bodies on the ground and the smell of warm copper in the air. He had never been around that much violence. It made him sick to think about. All the memories clashed with each other, all gnashing teeth and sharp claws tearing away at the inside of his head. John was breathless, in pain and too full of emotion to really process any of his memories.

They lost, and all that fighting and dying was for nothing. It was an ugly cycle, but John had never truly realized the extent of it. The sound of gunfire and piercing flesh, the sound of screams and death. And yet, they still lost. John tried to get his breathing under control, but couldn’t. He was panting now like a dog, unable to get a full breath of air, the pain traveling deep in his lungs. He rolled on his side to face the wall, hoping maybe the room would feel smaller that way. He grunted at the pain in his stomach once again.

“John?”

John helplessly felt tears roll down his cheeks, mind too crowded and empty at the same time. He wanted to scream for it all to stop.

“John?”

He absentmindedly put a hand over his mouth when he realized he was crying, an old habit from his days of living with his father. He felt a presence over him, and peeked an eye open to look.

“John, are you alright?” Hamilton asked.

There were a million responses he could’ve given, a million different options that maybe would’ve articulated his feelings better, but he had never been much of a poet.

“We lost,” he said between gulps of breath.

He said nothing when Hamilton crawled in bed next to him. He was silent as Hamilton wrapped his arms around him, cuddling his back against his chest. John was still crying, still overwhelmed.

“We lost,” he repeated, hand dropping from his mouth and shoulders shaking with the weight of it all.

Eventually, the force of his own cries lulled him to sleep, the weight of Hamilton’s arm the only thing anchoring him to reality.

 

Time still wasn’t passing quite right. It was daybreak by the time John woke up. He shifted and realized he wasn’t alone in his bed.

He looked at Hamilton’s tanned arm still wrapped around him, and decided to gently turn over to look at the man. By the time he was able to flip around without reopening his wound, he had awoken Hamilton, who was blinking at him with sleepy eyes.

When he saw John, he smiled groggily. “Hey,” he mumbled.

John felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe several.

“Hi,” he answered, praying his heartbeat was only loud in his ears and wasn’t audible to the man next to him.

“Are you okay?” Hamilton asked, mindlessly tracing circles around John’s bicep.

“Yes.”

“Do you hurt?”

John considered for a moment. “Yes, but not bad.”

Hamilton nodded, still looking at John in the eye. He reached out and brushed some hair out of his face, hand lingering on John’s jawline.

“Hamilton?” John stuttered out. “Wh—“

“Alexander,” Hamilton corrected softly.

“Alexander,” John repeated.

“Yes?” He said.

The room around them seemed to shrink exponentially as time went on. “What are you doing?” John managed to croak out, taking in Hamilton’s fierce eyes.

“May I kiss you?” He asked.

John’s entire line of sight blurred for a moment, heart now rising to an uncomfortable position in his throat, effectively choking him out of answering. He just nodded dumbly.

Alexander moved slow, closing the gap between them with one motion. John closed his eyes and breathed deep through his nose. This wasn’t like kissing Martha ever was, this was different and exciting, sending shivers throughout John’s body.

John, feeling candle flames licking up at this spine, arched his back into Hamilton, who moved his hand to the small of his back and pulled him closer. When John made a little helpless moan into the kiss, Hamilton pulled away immediately.

“Don’t,” he said, panting gently. “Don’t do that.”

John just nodded, breathless, not sure what he had done wrong. “Okay.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hamilton breathed, looking down then back up at John.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” John said.

Hamilton paused, and cracked a small smile. “Shouldn’t have kissed you?”

“Yes.”

“Well then you shouldn’t have consented to it,” he said defiantly.

John mirrored his smile. “Well I clearly don’t have the best judgement right now.”

“You’re fine, the drugs have all worn off.”

“All but one,” John whispered, still looking at Hamilton.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Hamilton said, taking John by the chin.

"No I won't, you're far too stubborn to just die," John retorted.

Hamilton laughed lightly, pressing their lips together once again. John knew this wasn't a good idea, he knew he would pay for this one day, be it in this life or the next.

Wrapped in Hamilton's warmth, smiling into the kiss, John decided he was alright with that for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's been about twenty years since I've posted, please enjoy some tooth rotting gangst while you have it because whoo buddy we're in for a bumpy ride.
> 
> This kind of took a backseat while I was working on my other Lams fanfic but idk now I'm way absorbed in this one so hey y'all I'm back and finally have a plan. (next few chapters will be kinda gay, real secretive, angsty, and a little drunk at one part)
> 
> THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVELY COMMENTS. This fanfic doesn't have as big of a following as the other but the select few of you that do follow it are so cool?? Your comments make me so happy and they're so genuine I just scream. (also should I reply to all comments?? I want to but I don't want to be weird, ya know?) I just really love you guys ok and I hope the gay of this chapter made up for the (admittedly huge) time gap between updates. More soon I promise.
> 
> Alright I'm done. Love you guys and please let me know what you think!


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